


Secret Santa

by azriona



Series: Advent Calendar Drabbles 2013 [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Advent Calendar Drabble, F/M, Gift Exchange, Gift Giving, Humor, Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-04 03:54:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1076250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azriona/pseuds/azriona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The yearly Secret Santa exchange at the Met does not go quite the way as intended.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Secret Santa

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jennybel75](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jennybel75/gifts).



> The ninth installment of this year’s Advent Calendar Drabbles. Because I am lazy, I’m titling the drabbles with the prompt. Today’s prompt is from fred_bear, who requested Sherlock/John, but hopefully will not be overly disappointed that I ignored that part.
> 
> I fully admit that I blatantly stole the character of Nathanial Johnson from the show [Keen Eddie](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0318390/). He’s not actually a forensic analyst in that show, but I don’t think you’ll find Sally complaining.

_December 2_

The entire conference room froze when John and Sherlock entered. For a moment, John thought they’d interrupted a department meeting – and then he saw the deerstalker upside-down in Lestrade’s hands, and Sally reaching in for a piece of paper. 

“Oh, good,” said Sherlock, quite pleased, and he rubbed his gloved hands together. “I’m not too late. I hope you remembered to include our names this year, Lestrade.” 

“No, strangely, I forgot,” said Lestrade dryly, and Sally hesitated for a moment before dropping the slip of paper back into the hat. 

“Oh, no,” she said, and the evil smile was slow and…well, rather maniacal. “If we’re adding _his_ name to the pot, I’ll wait.” 

“Ah,” said John, standing in the doorway, “what is this?” 

“Secret Santa, John, do keep up,” said Sherlock briskly. 

John stared at him. “You hate Christmas.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

“You pulled me out of bed after four hours’ sleep so you could participate in a holiday _gift exchange_?” spluttered John. 

“ _Domestic_ ,” sang Anderson under his breath, and both Sally and Dimmock twittered. John glared at them. 

“ _My_ bed, in _my_ room,” he clarified. “Where I was sleeping _alone_.” 

“Hey, mate, where you get off is your business,” said Dimmock, holding up his hands in defense. “Go at it where you like.” 

“Not here, though,” added Anderson. “We eat here sometimes.” 

“Well, if you weren’t always in the broom cupboard,” said Sherlock. 

“Down, boys,” said Lestrade, irritable. He handed the hat to Sherlock. 

“Oh, no,” groaned Sally. “Him? First?” 

“The sooner he picks, the sooner he leaves,” said Lestrade, and shook the hat at Sherlock, who reached in and pulled out a slip of paper. He looked at it, chortled to himself, grinned at every person in the room, and then turned on his heel and briskly strode away. 

“Oh, God,” said Sally, wide-eyed and clearly nervous, as if she’d just realized an intrinsic truth about Secret Santa gift exchanges. “He’s got someone. Who does he have? _Who does he have?_ ” 

“Here,” Lestrade said to John, and offered him the hat. “Limit’s ten quid, gift exchange at the department party on the 22nd. Nothing obscene or illegal, feel free to drop hints in the days leading up to the party, and remember it’s all in good fun.” 

“I’m sorry,” said John. “If I’d known this is why he wanted to come in, I would have tried harder to keep him away.” 

Lestrade shrugged, a sort of “well, what can you do”, clearly unconcerned. John reached in, and pulled out a slip of paper. 

Ah. 

“Right then,” said John, and after a quick nod to everyone, left the conference room in search of Sherlock. 

He could hear Sally still chanting _Oh God oh God oh God_ all the way down the hall. 

* 

“So,” said John, in what he supposed was a conversational and entirely non-accusatory manner as they rode in the cab back to Baker Street. “Who’d you get?” 

“Oh, John,” said Sherlock, and looked out the window, his mouth curved up just a tiny fraction. 

“You’re not going to tell me?” 

“That would rather defy the point of the entire operation being _secret_ , John.” 

John shifted on his seat, and looked out the window, before turning back to Sherlock. “You…didn’t get me, did you?” 

“Noooooo,” said Sherlock. 

“You know you’re supposed to put it back if you pick your own name, right?” 

“I do know how these gift exchanges operate, John.” 

“Right.” John shifted again, staring straight ahead. “Well. If you need any help with ideas…” 

“Oh, I’ll be sure to let you know,” said Sherlock, and John didn’t even need to look at him. He could hear Sherlock’s smirk loud and clear. 

* 

_December 10_

The crime scene was cramped, hot and humid, and utterly miserable for everyone involved. John had taken one look into the tiny room, and backed right back out again, hands in the air. 

“No,” he said firmly. 

“You’ve never been claustrophobic,” said Sherlock disdainfully. 

“And I think the best way to keep from being so is to stay out of that room, thanks.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and went right in. Without even removing his wool coat, John noted wryly, and waited for him to come back out. 

He did, scowling. 

“Utterly ridiculous,” he pronounced, digging into his pockets, and removed his mobile. “As if a mobile phone could actually set off an explosion in close quarters.” He turned back to the room and raised his voice. “ _It’s scientifically impossible, you’re just spouting ridiculous theories instigated by inane television writers_.” 

“Stay out then, if you’d rather,” said Anderson snidely, before leaving his own mobile on the table and going in. 

“God knows what evidence you’d destroy if I did,” countered Sherlock. 

“Leave off, Sherlock!” Lestrade shouted back, and Sherlock dropped his mobile on the table next to John, where half a dozen other mobiles were already waiting forlornly for their owners. 

“Better safe than sorry,” said John casually. Sherlock ignored him and went back into the room. 

Sally appeared around the corner. “Well?” she demanded, and John looked at her, startled. 

“He only just went in, he’s not actually _that_ fast.” 

“No, the Secret Santa. Did you figure out who he’s got?” 

“No.” 

“Did you at least _ask_?” 

“He refused to answer.” 

“Maybe he left the paper with the name on it in his trouser pockets? You do go through them before you do the laundry, right?” 

John began to wish he’d drawn Sally’s name, just so he could give her a lump of coal. “You know, we’re not actually married, I don’t have to do his laundry.” 

“But you do, right? You didn’t wash the paper, did you?” 

No, not just a lump – an entire bucket. “I don’t know who he has, Sally.” 

Sally groaned, and one of the phones on the table began to ring. John glanced quickly and saw it dancing in place. 

“Sherlock, your mobile.” 

John expected Sherlock to just shout for him to answer it himself, or at least make a scathing comment about meddling brothers, but instead Sherlock stormed out of the room. His face was beet red, and sweat had dampened the curls along his forehead and above his ears, plastering them to his skin. John smirked, thinking that Sherlock regretted the coat but would never admit to it, and Sherlock swooped down on the table, paused, and picked up the ringing phone. 

“Hel _lo_ ,” he said, purring into the phone, and listened to the caller. John furrowed his brow, and watched as Sherlock’s smile slowly crept across his face. The ends turned up, nearly parallel with the line of his nose, and John thought of the Grinch from the old cartoon, and stood straighter, wondering what the hell was going on, and not liking it much. 

“Why, now that you mention it, she’s right here,” said Sherlock, with barely a glance at Sally, who straightened and looked rather put out. 

“Who is that?” Sally asked, and Sherlock covered the microphone and mouthed, “No-one, don’t worry about it,” at her. 

“And when were you going to tell him about the off-shore accounts, exactly? Oh. Oh, I see. Yes, I think that would be best,” finished Sherlock, and he held the phone down. “Anderson! It’s your wife. She’d like to know if you want steak or chicken for dinner tonight, and that she’s sleeping with her yoga instructor who has apparently asked her to run off to Switzerland with her.” Sherlock turned to John. “Female instructor. Quite fit, apparently.” 

Anderson appeared at the door, an odd combination of white as a sheet and red from overheating, and he stared at Sherlock in utter shock. 

“That…that’s _my phone_!” he stammered. 

“Well, yes, thought it was mine, answered it, so very sorry,” said Sherlock breezily. “Nice model. Prezzie from the wife? Well, ex-wife, now, I’d think.” 

“ _You wanker_!” howled Anderson, and wrenched the phone away from Sherlock before storming down the hall and out into the lobby, leaving the three of them to stare after him. 

“Did…what just happened?” asked John. 

“The dissolution of a marriage, John,” said Sherlock. “I hope Mycroft’s recording it.” 

But Sally was staring at Sherlock. “You…you did that.” 

“Hmm?” 

“You broke up Anderson’s marriage.” 

“Hardly. That would have been the yoga instructor.” 

“That’s not the point—“ 

“I suppose he’s available now,” said Sherlock thoughtfully. “Happy Christmas, Sally.” 

Sally sucked in a breath. “You….you _wanker_. You can’t break up Anderson’s marriage and give it to me for Secret Santa!” 

Sherlock paid her no attention; instead, he swooped up his mobile from the table and flipped it in the air, catching it neatly. 

“Lestrade, question the electrician,” Sherlock called into the tiny, over-heated room. “Honestly, I don’t know why you bother calling me in half the time. Come along, John.” 

John glanced back at Sally as they left. The woman was still vibrating with anger. 

* 

“That was really not on, Sherlock,” said John severely once they were firmly ensconced in the cab on the way home. 

“Hmm? Oh. Sally’s not my Secret Santa. Nor is Anderson.” 

“This isn’t about the Secret Santa, Sherlock.” 

“Isn’t it?” asked Sherlock mildly, checking his phone. He sighed. “Mycroft really needs something better to do than bother me.” 

“Would you listen to me for once?” John nearly shouted. “You can’t go around breaking up marriages, even if they’re failing. That’s not your business.” 

“Duly noted, thank you, John,” said Sherlock seriously, and turned the phone to John. 

It was a pdf file of a bank statement – one belonging to a certain Laura and Sam Anderson, and containing approximately 80,000 quid, with deposits going back the last three weeks of amounts no less than 12,000 pounds apiece. 

“What is this?” asked John. 

“Laura, wife of Samuel Anderson – well, I should say soon to be ex-wife. She works in The City, you know, and has been using insider knowledge to make quite a bit of money for herself, which she’s been storing away in an account our Anderson knew nothing about. What you don’t see is that today, she removed herself from the account, intending to frame him and thus make good on her escape from the marriage and run off with her yoga instructor. Of course, now that Anderson knows about it, and of course Mycroft who cannot keep his meddling ear off of me, he’ll be happy to learn that there is now enough evidence that he knew nothing about it, and therefore is free of any accountability.” 

John’s mouth dropped open. “Bloody hell.” 

“Indeed. Indian, tonight, do you think?” 

“Yeah, sure,” said John, and he sat back against the cushions, and tried to process. 

“Sherlock,” he asked finally. “Is Anderson…?” 

“No,” said Sherlock, but he smiled as he said it. 

* 

_December 15_

John always felt the worst for the ones who died shortly before Christmas. He wondered if they’d done their shopping yet; thought about presents they hadn’t wrapped, the family and friends who wouldn’t know what they’d been meant to receive. The presents purchased for them already, sitting under a tree somewhere, wrapped but never destined to be opened. 

“Oh, lovely, the Terrible Two,” said Sally dryly as John and Sherlock walked up to the crime scene, and she lifted the tape for them to pass under. “Here to destroy another person’s life in the name of Secret Santa, Freak? I can lend you the red ribbon, if you’d like.” 

“Ta, Sally, that’d be helpful,” said Sherlock, and he walked right past her. 

“I don’t know,” said John immediately, anticipating Sally’s third degree already. 

“Good. I don’t care,” said Sally, and John didn’t believe her. 

Lestrade was waiting impatiently near the body. “He’s late.” 

“Mycroft is being unreasonably annoying with the traffic signals as of late,” said Sherlock. 

“Not you,” snapped Lestrade. “Anderson’s replacement.” 

“Replacement?” asked John, with an annoyed glance at Sherlock. 

Sherlock shrugged. “I uncovered the truth behind his marriage, I have nothing to do with anything else that might have occurred in his private or professional life.” 

“He’s taking an administrative leave,” Lestrade explained. “The divorce and the trial. Nothing untoward, completely on the up and up. He hasn’t had a holiday in years, apparently – never thought he could afford it, his wife’s kept him in the dark about a lot of things. So he’s going to the Bahamas for the holidays.” 

John glanced at Sherlock. Sherlock’s mouth might have quirked, or maybe it was the light. Hard to tell. 

“Sally’s still outside.” 

“And looking rather cold, don’t you think?” asked Sherlock, amused. “Trouble in non-paradise, I’d say.” 

“Huh,” said John. “So. Replacement.” 

“And he’s late,” grumbled Lestrade. 

“Actually,” said Sherlock, glancing out the window. “I believe he’s here.” 

John and Lestrade joined him, and the three of them stared out with vastly different expressions on their faces. 

On the pavement outside, was Sally Donovan. Next to her was a tall, bald, black man, dressed impeccably in a suit and coral-colored shirt with an open collar. He had broad shoulders and a slim waist, and the suit, if not bespoke, was at least tailored to fit him. He faced Sally, a smile on his face, and Sally looked up at him with what was either clear admiration, or at least cautious interest. 

“Oh,” said John. 

“Is she _flirting_ with my forensic analyst?” demanded Lestrade. 

“Yes, and yes,” said Sherlock, smugly. 

“Can you blame her?” asked John, and when the two men looked at him, straightened his spine. “It’s just…he’s….very….tall.” 

“Yes. Tall,” said Sherlock, looking back out the window. Lestrade smirked at John, who glared right back at him. “Ah, he’s coming in now.” 

Outside, Sally watched the man go, before snapping her eyes up to the window where Lestrade, Sherlock, and John still watched. The three of them backed away in a single movement, but not before John saw the look of utter amazement on Sally’s face. 

She looked pretty, when she was flustered, John thought, and then the new forensic analyst appeared in the doorway. 

He very nearly didn’t fit. John swallowed hard, and heard Sherlock choke down a snort. 

“Nathanial!” said Sherlock brightly. “You’ve found it.” 

“Holmes,” said Nathanial with a nod. His voice was rich and deep, and infused with a warm politeness toward Sherlock that left John feeling both oddly jealous and overly defensive all at once. “I did. Your directions were, as always, quite detailed.” 

“Him?” asked John, glancing back between the two of them. “Mr The-Sugar-is-Somewhere-in-the-Kitchen? Are you serious?” 

“You must be John,” said Nathanial, and reached out for John’s hand. John took it; Nathanial’s hand was warm and strong and John decided that Sally was a very, very lucky woman, and that Sherlock was a very, very dead man. “Living with Sherlock must be very difficult.” 

“It is,” said John. “And I’m not actually gay.” 

“Of course not,” said Nathanial. “Detective Inspector Lestrade?” 

“Nathanial Johnson,” said Lestrade dryly. “I saw you met Detective Sergeant Donovan.” 

Nathanial smiled, as if admitting to it would be telling. “You’re very lucky to have her.” 

“Aren’t I,” said Lestrade. “Anyone care to solve a murder now?” 

“Of course,” said Nathanial. “Sherlock, I’m ready to assist.” 

* 

Sherlock smiled as he read the text messages on his phone in the cab on the way home. John leaned against the door and stared at him. 

“John,” said Sherlock after five minutes of silence. 

“Was…” 

“No,” said Sherlock. 

“You don’t even know what I was going to ask.” 

“Was Sally my Secret Santa? No. Was I involved in assigning Nathanial Johnson to Lestrade’s case? No. Was I planning on giving Sally a new boyfriend now that her old one has left her for the sunny beaches of the Bahamas? No. Was this all a ploy so that I could have a forensic analyst who is actually willing to work with me assigned to Lestrade’s cases from here on out? A pleasant idea, but no. I have you, John. I don’t need a forensic analyst.” 

“That’s not what—” 

Sherlock held up a finger as he pressed the phone to his ear. “Ah, Mycroft. I received your message. Piss off, and happy holidays!” 

“Oh, God,” groaned John. “Was _Mycroft_ involved?” 

“Oh, John,” sighed Sherlock. “Of course not. And that’s not what you wanted to know anyway.” 

“All right then. Tell me. What was I was going to ask?” 

Sherlock smiled. “Nathanial Johnson is just an acquaintance, John. Nothing more.” 

John’s face flushed. “That’s not…” 

“Chinese?” asked Sherlock, and John breathed out. 

“All right.” 

* 

_December 19_

It happened so quickly that John didn’t have time to process it until later. 

“Jump!” shouted Sherlock, and he leapt across water-soaked pavement, the puddle of sewer water that was at least five meters across. Sherlock landed neatly on the other side, with barely a wobble. 

John was right behind him, leaping without thinking, and he landed on the edge of the water, splashing it up onto the legs of his jeans, soaking his shoes. He groaned; the smell from the water was untenable; it’d take weeks for the stench to dissipate from the leather, assuming it ever did. 

Lestrade was not so lucky. It was the splash that alerted John to something being wrong – it was more than a man landing on his feet in a puddle of water. It was a splash and a slap, a crack and a sick squelching sound, and then a howl. 

Sherlock kept running. John turned back, and saw Greg Lestrade lying flat on his back in the center of the puddle, which was much deeper at the edge than they’d realized because the water nearly covered his arms. John ran back, straight into the water, shoes be damned, and fell to his knees next to him. 

The bottom of the puddle wasn’t smooth pavement at all – it was broken gravel, rough and painful, and John winced and ignored the pain. 

“Don’t move,” he told Lestrade, who snorted. 

“I didn’t break my back, I can feel my legs,” he said. “Wish I couldn’t, actually.” 

John touched Lestrade’s legs with gentle hands, and winced. 

“Broken.” 

“Sodding hell,” groaned Lestrade, and his head fell back into the water with a splash. 

* 

It had been a crowbar, Sherlock deduced later. A few swipes at the pavement, at a nearby water main, and that was the creation of a city-esque water hazard, complete with broken glass and large pieces of cement, one of which had caused Lestrade’s femur to crack, ending his pursuit of the culprit. 

“You could have caught him if you hadn’t turned back,” Lestrade told Sherlock as the medics wheeled him to the waiting ambulance. 

“No matter,” said Sherlock. “He’s in 426 Dunderee Road, toasting his success with cheap whiskey.” 

Lestrade stared at Sherlock. “What?” 

“Donovan and Johnson are already on their way there,” continued Sherlock. “Johnson’s a bit extraneous, of course, but seeing as they were already together when the call came in, I didn’t think his presence would hurt.” 

“Together,” echoed Lestrade flatly. 

“Of course. Second date, dinner and a walk through the park. Sally’s being uncharacteristically cautious. Twice burned, and all that.” 

“Twice?” asked John, but Sherlock waved him off. 

“Sir, you might want to step back,” said one of the medics to Sherlock, and then turned to Lestrade. “Stay still, it’ll help.” 

John glanced at Lestrade, who was looking somewhat green. 

“His spine is fine,” said Sherlock. “You needn’t worry about paralysis.” 

“No,” said the medic, “but there was a lot of bacteria in the water, and he had enough cuts and abrasions that some of it might have…” 

Which was when Lestrade threw up, barely missing Sherlock. The medic shoved a bag under his mouth to catch most of it. 

“Yup,” said the medic, and pushed Lestrade’s cot into the ambulance, leaving Sherlock in shock on the pavement. 

* 

“I have to ask,” said John in the cab on the way home. “Was Lestrade…?” 

“Honestly, John,” said Sherlock shortly, and huddled in his coat. He pulled out his phone, and pressed it to his ear. John heard the faint ringing, and then the pause as it was picked up, but he couldn’t make out who answered. 

“All your dreams come true,” Sherlock snapped into the phone. “I hope you’re happy.” He disconnected with somewhat more verve than usually, and slumped further in the seat. 

“Who was that?” asked John slowly. 

“I realize you have little faith in my ability to discern the proper present one gives to a Secret Santa,” said Sherlock, “but even you must admit that I know better than to break their leg.” 

John had to admit that Sherlock was right. 

* 

_December 22 – the Secret Santa gift exchange_

The conference room was empty. 

Sherlock didn’t seem to notice; he strode into the room as if it were decorated to the nines with holly and tinsel, dropped his wrapped box on the table, and sat down on the chair normally occupied by Lestrade. He propped his feet up on the table and leaned back with a regal sort of air, while John stood, somewhat confused, in the doorway. 

Lestrade was flat on his back at home, because while he didn’t actually have blood poisoning, he was fairly weak, and what with the broken leg, was out on medical leave for the next two weeks. 

“It’s December 22nd,” said John. 

“Yes, of course,” said Sherlock, and spun happily in the chair. He balled up a spare bit of paper and tossed it at another chair, as if making a basket; Anderson’s chair, as it so happened. 

Anderson was theoretically sunning himself on a beach in the Bahamas, and getting a divorce from his philandering and money-hungry wife. 

“Two in the afternoon. That’s when the party is. Lestrade said.” 

“Hardly as if he’d be here.” 

“No, but Sally…” 

“Sally is in Yorkshire,” said Sherlock with some amount of relish. “Visiting Nathanial Johnson’s relatives.” 

John stared in shock. 

“A bit quick,” said John. 

Sherlock shrugged. 

“Well…what about Dimmock?” 

“Oh, John, do listen to the news once in a while. Triple homicide across town. And with Lestrade out on medical leave, Dimmock is picking up the slack.” 

John shook his head sympathetically, and Sherlock snorted. “It’s what he’s been wanting for years. A chance to show he’s not just Lestrade’s understudy. So to speak. He’s quite pleased with the arrangement.” 

John huffed. “So. There’s no party.” 

“Nope,” said Sherlock, popping the “p”, utterly delighted with himself. 

“You dragged me down here for nothing.” 

“Well,” said Sherlock. “Hardly nothing.” 

John eyed the box on the table. “Interesting, isn’t it? Everyone got what they wanted this Christmas, except it wasn’t quite in the way they wanted it. Anderson got a holiday. Dimmock got more high-profile cases. Sally got a new boyfriend. You got Nathanial Johnson. The only person who doesn’t fit is Lestrade.” 

“Not quite. Ring him up, I think you’ll be surprised at who answers the phone.” 

John frowned. “His wife?” 

Sherlock made a face. “Mycroft.” 

“ _Mycroft_?” 

“He’s been waiting for years to play the little nursemaid,” said Sherlock. “Can we please change the subject, before I lose my lunch?” 

“You planned this. You planned _all_ of this.” 

“Happy circumstance, I assure you. None of them were my Secret Santa. Besides, you’re forgetting someone.” 

Oh, God. John eyed the present on the table. “Was it me?” 

Sherlock sighed. “Honestly, John.” 

The door opened again, and John turned around to see a pretty blonde woman poke her head in. “So sorry I’m…oh, _thank God_ , no one else remembered either.” 

“Sorry?” asked John, completely confused. 

“The department’s Christmas party?” explained the woman. “No one’s here. Isn’t it wonderful?” 

“Completely,” said Sherlock. 

“I’m sorry, who are you?” asked John. 

The woman stuck out her hand. “The new secretary, I only started the day before the drawing but D.I. Lestrade insisted. Like I could buy something for someone I don’t even know.” 

“John Watson,” said John, and shook her hand. It was small and fit into his perfectly. 

“Really? Isn’t that funny, you’re my Secret Santa, as it turns out,” said the woman, and she smiled a thousand watts at John, which effectively fried every last brain cell that Sherlock hadn’t destroyed already. “My name’s Mary Morstan. It’s lovely to meet you.” 

“Same here,” said John, dazed. 

“Well,” said Sherlock brightly, swinging his legs down from the table and getting to his feet. “Since there’s no party, I ought to rescue Dimmock from himself now. Happy Christmas, John. I won’t wait up.” 

“Happy Christmas,” said John, never taking his eyes from Mary. 

“Hi,” said Mary, laughing, still shaking John’s hand. 

“Oh,” said John, and quickly let go, laughing a bit. 

“So,” said Mary, “is that yours?” She pointed to the box Sherlock had set on the table. 

John picked it up, and read the tag. “No,” he said, smiling, and resolved to make sure that Sherlock’s stocking was filled with every disgusting body part that Molly could reasonably spare. He handed the box out to Mary. “I believe it belongs to you.”


End file.
